Old As Time
by Robin Mask
Summary: Belle only wanted to find her father. She only wanted to save him, to protect him, but at what cost? It had never occurred to her that she might lose her very freedom. It never occurred to her she might become prisoner of a beast . . . Modern retelling. Initial one-shot.


**A/N: **This is dedicated to 'Vicky Voltaire'. She writes some amazing Disney fanfiction, so I very much recommend checking her out.

This will begin as a tragic one-shot, but I will add more chapters over time.

I have set the story in modern-day England, sans magic.

**Old As Time**

'_Look at who has returned.'_

_The voice was mocking . . . cold. There was a little humour in the tone, but something so dark that it felt almost sadistic and disinterested. The expression on his master's face was one that matched the voice completely and perfectly. His lips were pursed together in a regal gesture of annoyance, his head pulled slightly upwards as if he sought to evade a bad aroma, and his flared nostrils and half-lidded eyes denoted feelings of superiority and arrogance. _

_How could such a princely boy – lord of his land – have become so bratty, so childish, or so _selfish_? In the absence of the boy's parents __Lumière saw the way that the servants, people bred and taught to obey rules without question, deferred to the boy and followed his every command. It seemed some feared the retribution of the absent parents, the loss of their jobs should the boy complain that he had not been listened to, whilst others felt pity on him and sought to make his life as comfortable as possible. Then there were others – so stiflingly and typically British – who obeyed out of a need to obey, and so they needed purpose and found purpose in servitude. _

_He loved that boy dearly. He was so free-spirited and full of life! Why, if he could just learn some manners and etiquette he would be a perfect Frenchman in the making, and Lumière may have even been tempted to take this English lord under his wing. How could he do anything _but _admire one with such confidence and leadership, such optimism and strong sense of self? Ah, of course the selfish spells and terrible tantrums were something to be pitied, but Lumière wasn't the boy's father, he couldn't exactly discipline him or correct him . . . _

"_This simply won't do," came a voice beside Lumière. "The master has his violin lessons in fifteen minutes! If he keeps talking to that beggar any longer then he'll be late. Oh, what do I do? I can't go down there . . . can I?"_

"_Relax! Pull up a chair! Shall I get Babette to find one?"_

_Lumière continued to lean upon the banister. The hall beneath them stretched out for what felt like miles, a scene that was both grand and overwhelming, and the stone tiles and stained-glass windows always made him feel – well – at home. They reminded him of the architecture of Paris, the simplicity of Nice, and the art of Chantilly. It wasn't as splendid as the ballroom, but it was enough to make an excellent impression upon guests as they first entered._

_There was a loud huff of indignation from beside him. The British were just so damned obsessed with time! No sense of leisure that came with a Greek meal, no sense of a casual stroll that came with the Italian lifestyle . . . maybe it was the climate, no one wanted to take their time when the world outside was so grey and wet, but to Lumière nothing could be better than people-watching at night with a glass of __Red_ Bordeaux Supérieur _by his feet. It didn't matter that he was merely watching the master; it was still far better than being yelled at in the kitchen for sampling the food, or being told to stop flirting with Babette in the library, or being told to run some errand or other that felt less than necessary. _

"_Wasn't that woman here just a minute ago? Yes, I'm sure she was."_

"_Does it matter?" Lumière asked. "It kills some time, _mon ami,_ does it not?"_

"_I knew we shouldn't have hired a Frenchman! No sense of punctuality!"_

_The slightly obese man beside him pulled out a pocket-watch. It was a sight that made Lumière laugh aloud, because nothing in the world could be so stereotypically British! The silver chain even clasped to the pocket of his waistcoat in an oddly Victorian way, although Cogsworth would always claim he drew the inspiration for his traditional attire from the Edwardian era, but that was Cogsworth through and through, a man who knew a little of everything and a lot of nothing._

"_I am off-duty," Lumière said through his laughter. "You are the boy's governess, _non_? You set his schedule, if you were more careful you could have the evening free too. Ah, I could show you the splendours of French cuisine!"_

"_I am not a 'governess', you butcher of the English language! I am the boy's personal and private tutor, and I -! Oh, why do I bother? You won't remember the word."_

"_Of course, I won't! English is – do you see that?"_

"_Hmm, what?"_

_The princely boy below seemed to be arguing with the old and haggard woman at the doors to the manor, enough that he seemed to be growing quite agitated. It seemed that this old woman had decided to walk from her home in a nearby village to a friend in another village, but – unable to drive and without a mobile phone – when she became lost she was unable to retrace her steps or seek help. It had begun to snow outside and it would be several hours walking back to the village. _

_It was a difficult decision for a boy of eleven to make. He had been warned over and over to never talk to strangers, of the risk that robbers and kidnappers posed, told horror stories of molesters in parks and killers in the streets, and so even an old woman could pose a risk. Women were used as decoys in crimes or even as bait, they were used as distractions or to lure children or other women into a false sense of security . . . what if she stole from them? What if she hurt them? Ah, and with the chauffer asleep in his bed, no taxi or bus service this far in the countryside, she would have no choice but to spend the night or brave the snowy storm for hours on end. Did he ignore the warnings of the adults or cast her away yet again into the cold?_

"_That poor woman," Lumière said with a sigh. "Could we not take her through to the servants' quarters? She could warm by the fire, eat some leftovers, then one of us could phone for a relative to collect her."_

"_What if she has no relatives? Worse, she could be a scam-artist! She has a darned hood hiding her face; it's not as though we can see who she really is to trust her. It'd be foolish to let a stranger into a house like this. She could hurt the master, or she could accuse one of us of hurting her, or she could steal something . . . even if she's a lovely woman, what if she's been reported as missing? We could –"_

"_You worry too much."_

"_The master made his choice. He sent her away. She should respect that."_

"_She came back in hopes he would change his mind, redeem himself. The snow is forecast several inches, it shall be minus ten tonight with a chill! She may slip on the ice and break a hip, or merely freeze to death in the night."_

"_Then she shouldn't have walked here in the first place!"_

"_Perhaps, perhaps, but she did, _oui_?"_

_Their master pointed out of the door towards the manor gates. He wore a wonderful purple jumper and tailored black trousers; it gave him the appearance of a prince resting in leisure. He had the elegance and poise, but the casual attire, and on his fingers there were jewels cast down by generations, his neck adorned by necklaces to make a celebrity envious, and his face and body showed a boy that would become a beautiful and handsome man. _

_He was barely older than some of the servants' children, which perhaps was why they felt such sympathy for him . . . empathy was the most motivating of emotions, after all. It was hard to say no to a boy when you saw your own child's face in his, when your every thought was that this – in another world – could easily have been your son, and if your son were all alone you would want someone to take sympathy upon him too. In a way Lumière found it easy to forgive the boy his trespasses. It wasn't due to empathy on Lumière's part, or even from paternal instincts he had yet to develop, but because he understood the hardships of pre-pubescent children, he was – after all – one at one point in his life. Children were prone to tantrums. _

_The old woman – a 'wench' to the male servants and a 'witch' to the children – seemed to plead with their lord one last time. Her hands were gloved, her body hunched over, and her face hidden by locks of blondish-grey hair . . . it was hard to say whether she was old indeed or merely disabled in a way that made her appear so, but it was clear that in another lifetime she had once been beautiful. She extended a hand to their lord. In her grasp was a long-stemmed rose. Beautiful! If it hadn't been stolen from their garden, that was. _

"_A rose in exchange for a bed for the night?"_

"_A deal one can not refuse!" Lumière said, as he reached down to sip his wine. "I would gladly take a rose over a thousand gold doubloons, and a kiss from Babette over the kisses of a million women!" _

"_Hush, hush, I think she is saying something to him!"_

_She did indeed whisper something, but far too quietly for the men on the first floor to hear what was said on the ground. Then she offered to him the rose yet again, only – yet again – he refused it. There could be any more difficult a decision for a child to make, especially one who had yet to learn how to read faces, how to judge between good and evil, and it was a decision only he could make. Should a servant make it for him, they would no doubt be fired for their impudence. It was then she spoke audibly:_

'_The man who conquers must first conquer himself.'_

_The woman threw back her hood and stood straight. It seemed that she was far younger than her appearance had first seemed, with hair golden as the sun and eyes blue like emeralds, so beautiful that Lumière could have written sonnets to those very eyes! Underneath those hooded robes she seemed to wear a vibrant green dress, one that gave her the impression of a fairy from an old nursery tale, and yet – for a lady within her thirties – she seemed oddly cold . . . _

_Lumière felt oddly disillusioned by this change. It seemed that perhaps she had been a con artist after all, but – unable to trick the young lord – gave up her attempts completely in her rage. He was about to reach down for another sip when he caught sight of a quick and fast movement on her part. It was fast. It was so fast that he heard the scream of pain before he saw the damage. It was a sound that sent a cold sweat down his body, a sound that paralysed him to the spot, and it was only when it subsided into choked sobs – as his master collapsed to his knees – that he sprang into action. Lumière ran down the left staircase as Cogsworth dived down the right. _

"_Master! What happened?"_

"_My lord, say something, please!"_

_The woman had run. Their master collapsed on his side. _

_Cogsworth had taken to chasing after her, yelling at the top of his lungs to rally the attention of the other servants. The maids came running from the kitchens, the chef on their heels, and Mrs Potts appeared from the door to the servants' quarters, whilst Lumière was left leaning over his master. He wasn't sure what was wrong. He couldn't hear anything through the young boy's screams, and he couldn't see past the young boy's hands. He wouldn't let go of his face. _

"_What on Earth happened, Lumière?" Mrs Potts asked, as she ran to their side. _

"_I – I do not know! The young master just fell to the ground! The woman who was here ran and Cogsworth is giving chase . . . I cannot see his face to see why he screams! What do we do?"_

"_Babette, call for an ambulance! Angelique, get some water! Quickly!"_

_Lumière gasped when Mrs Potts eventually managed to pull the child's hands away. His face . . . the damage . . . it looked as if half of his face had been burned terribly. The boy closed both his eyes and thrashed about as if he were drowning, his mouth opened in a scream that didn't seem to end, and as he cried Lumière realised the tears only came from one side . . . that his right eye _couldn't _open. It was then that he saw the shattered glass by the door and the liquid burning into the floor . . . _

"_Acid?" Lumière asked._

"_Ah, gently, Angelique! Gently! We need to wash as much of it off as we can!"_

"Mon Dieu, _may God have mercy . . ."_

_*/*/*~~~*/*/*_

Belle stepped into the cold hall with a shiver.

It was a lot emptier than she had expected it to be. In all her stories the halls of the manor houses and palaces were swimming with people . . . she remembered pictures of golden chandeliers aglow with a thousand flickering flames, tales of how royalty and nobles waltzed to and fro on glistening tiled floors, and how the music was said to dance through the air like a warm breeze. This place was nothing like those novels and fables . . . it was as if she had stepped into a gothic horror.

There wasn't a single person in sight. The only company she had was her own shadow on the dusty floor beneath her, a shadow distorted and stretched out from the moonlight outside, and the darkness around her felt so cold and real that she could almost feel it reaching out to touch upon her skin. She felt alone. She had no idea who may have been looking out from the many doors on the ground floor, each one cracked open to varying degrees, and she had no idea who may have been watching from the above balcony . . . she felt exposed and vulnerable. She felt at the mercy of the old manor house. Every instinct inside her called at her to leave.

"P-Papa? Are you here?"

That was his car outside, wasn't it? Trusted old 'Philippe' as he called it, named after the old mare in the family stables, an old ramshackle thing that its namesake could probably outrun on a good day. The very moment she saw the car on the roadside, broken down and doors unlocked, she knew that she had to go inside the manor house, because – in all honesty – where else could he have been? What choice did she have? The hotel claimed he hadn't checked in at all, the police said not enough time had passed to declare him missing . . . she had to look for him. She had to.

Belle reached out for a lit candelabrum on a nearby table, hoping that it would provide some light in this darkened place. It was some indication that someone had to be here, because there was no way for them to have lit the candles otherwise, but she could only hope that the person who did so was the owner of the manor or her father, if – God forbid – it were a trespasser of sorts then there may be trouble. She had endured enough of that with Gaston, to have to worry about worse with a stranger . . . it wasn't worth thinking about, although a small part of her would have rather dealt with potential assault than an evening with Gaston. The man had been so disrespectful, so misogynistic, and so _aggressive_! There had to be someone here though. It didn't matter whom at this point, just so long as they led her to her father!

She felt a chill run through her body, a draught from a nearby door that seemed to flutter to and fro in an unseen air current. It made her jump a little, the flames of the candle flickering as the air caught them, and when she turned she saw nothing but dancing shadows and a lack of life. She wondered if her father had been offered a bed for the night or shown to a phone to make a call, but if that were the case then why wouldn't he have called already? Oh, if only he could learn to charge his phone and to carry it with him! If only he had called her the moment he became lost!

"Papa? Can you hear me? Papa!"

A door slammed somewhere above.

Belle jumped and stumbled a little, the candelabrum nearly falling from her hand as she gasped and clasped at her breast in fear. Her heart beat fiercely within her chest, her breath escaped her lips in a shuddered gasp, and suddenly her senses felt heightened . . . every sound seemed to be magnified a thousand fold, every shadow seemed to penetrate the darkness and stand out in her vision like a bright light. There was someone there. There had to be!

"Hello! Is someone there?"

Every instinct in her body told her to run. What chance did a lone woman have against any man or monster? Gaston had cornered her in her own home, pinned her against the wall and tried to kiss her, but the only thing that saved her from that forced kiss was sheer luck. If she hadn't have opened the door when she had . . . Gaston wouldn't have gone too far, would he? Regardless, she couldn't trust that a stranger – one all alone in a darkened manor – would have the same restraint as the village womaniser. What if she were attacked?

She wasn't strong by any stretch of the imagination. True, she had a figure many would envy, but it was a womanly figure, a figure of a woman who spent days reading by the fire rather than jogging through the woods. Her skin was soft and pale, not firm and tanned, and she had never really considered her sedentary lifestyle an issue . . . until – that was – that very moment. She didn't want to face an attacker. She knew that she wouldn't be able to aim a punch or push away a body, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to run far or hide well, but the very thought of leaving her father – elderly and frail – alone in a cold and empty manor . . . it was too awful for words. She couldn't leave him. She couldn't!

"Hello! I'm coming upstairs! Please, don't go!"

She took a hold of the skirts of her blue dress and white apron, lifting them so that she would be able to run slightly better than she otherwise would. It seemed that men like Gaston found her traditional attire to be attention seeking in some way, or a visual sign that she was somehow playing hard to get, but – in all honesty – she wore what she did for practical reasons. The large dress was warm and comfortable, it kept her warm on nights where the coal fire barely penetrated into the cold, and the apron kept her clean around the farm and in her father's workshop.

Her shoes were flat so that she could walk far and with ease, and her face was free from make-up for the simple reason that she didn't believe in hiding her true face in order to win a false man. She wanted a _real _love. She wanted a love like the love she had read about in her books! The man she would marry would love her for her practicality, he would love her for her natural beauty, and he would love her for her dreams and aspirations . . . he wouldn't want her merely as a – a – a trophy wife! The nerve of him! The nerve of him to think that Belle would give up everything in order to sit prettily at home and darn his socks!

'_Shush now! She'll hear you. We don't want to frighten the poor girl.'_

'_Oh, pish-posh! I doubt there's a girl at all. That boy has an overactive imagination!'_

'Non, _she is right! Babette saw the girl, too! There is a girl in the manor!'_

Belle slowly and silently ascended the staircase. It was impossible to say where the voices were coming from, especially with the strange echo about the upper floors of the manor, but there seemed to be only two places they could be escaping from . . . the west and the east. She cast a glance to her left. It seemed to be a very dark part of the manor that had fallen into a state of disrepair, in fact she could even see what looked to be bones and bodies, something that she hoped was merely a case of bad-taste taxidermy. The right, however, looked more inviting.

"Hello?"

There was a sudden sound that signalled a scattering of bodies. She walked towards it as she heard footsteps falling over themselves, followed by harsh whispers and shadows that floated past her peripheral vision. She could just about make out a door in what must have been the east wing, somewhere in the corner of her eye, and from the other side she could see – through the slither of a crack – a tall man run past. She could only make out his golden-brown clothing and dark hair, but there he was: real.

She ran as fast as she could in the direction of the sounds, but when she threw open the door she saw nothing but a vast and long corridor that seemed to lead to nowhere. Where had those voices gone? The way they talked – the amount she heard – it had to mean that there were a large group here, at the very least around six or so, but then why were they hiding? They couldn't be trespassers, could they? She felt afraid to walk through those corridors with only a candelabrum for company, but her father needed her . . . if something happened to him then she would never forgive herself! She had to be brave, to believe that the people here would do her no harm.

It was then that she saw a curtain at the far end of the corridor twitch and move, from behind it she caught sight of a long and bare leg moving as if in a run. The leg was certainly feminine, the skirt reminiscent of a maid's uniform, and between the female voice and the name 'Babette' she was certain that this had to be a servant. The voices had to be servants' voices! Why hadn't they stopped her then? Why hadn't they answered her calls? If she could just reach the woman and get her attention -!

"Wait, please!"

Belle ran and reached the curtain within seconds. It seemed that the curtain was rather a tapestry; one that depicted a scene of wild animals within a savannah, the lions in specific caught her interest . . . in fact the closer she looked the more it seemed like two forces battling for dominance, the light versus the dark. She took a step back and drew in a deep breath. A lock of brown hair fell in front of her face, which she pushed aside gently as per her habit.

"Well, here it goes . . ."

She pulled back the tapestry and saw – to her surprise – a spiralled staircase that seemed to reach high up into a tower. The steps were made of stone and especially steep, rather like something one would encounter in a medieval castle like the ones of Warwick or Kenilworth, not something to be found in a manor deep within the heart of the countryside. There was a little part of her that was reminded of stories of the mad women locked in the attic, of abandoned wives and half-starved children, but another part of her remembered the stories of hidden treasures and princes hiding from the unjust wrath of the law. She wondered what was up there. Her father wouldn't have wandered to this part of the castle, would he?

In slow and considered steps she made her way up the staircase. She went slowly in case danger awaited, but moved quickly enough that were it true her father sat at its height he would not have to wait long. The draught was worse in this part of the castle, and just ahead see could hear heels clicking on stone quickly enough to denote running, whilst somewhere behind her there was the sound of a man letting out a sound of disgust and someone else gasping loudly.

Where was she? It was like walking through an enchanted castle filled with ghosts and spirits, she felt as if she were being watched and followed, but how could that be when not a single soul had stopped to so much as speak to her. She thought perhaps about turning back, or about calling for the police to investigate further, but wasn't she technically the one trespassing at this point? She didn't want to get hurt though. She also didn't want for Gaston to find out about this and – in his prideful arrogance – try to 'save the day' . . . he seemed to think that he was her knight in shining armour, her Prince Charming, and yet – even though she believed in those things with all her heart – he just wasn't it. He never would be.

It was then that she reached the top of the stairwell. She saw a row of doors about her, almost all were padlocked from the outside, but one door – just one – was different from the others. It had bars across the bottom. She didn't want to think what it had originally been used for, standing there like the door to a prison as it loomed in her vision, but from behind it she heard a choked and broken coughing sound, followed by wheezing and hacking. Then – from behind the doors – she saw a hand. She saw her father's hand. Her father.

"Papa? _Papa_!"

She ran to the door and took a grip of his outstretched hand, putting the candelabrum down beside the wooden door. It felt cold, almost like ice, and it was clammy too. How long had he been locked inside that room? She could see how pale his face had become inside what seemed to be a cell, a room deprived of any furniture and any warmth, and he was lying there . . . lying on a cold stone floor. He was an old man; he shouldn't have been treated that way! His arthritis would surely play up in the cold room and his pained coughing had to be sign of an infection. Who would have done something like this?

Her father spluttered wildly and opened his eyes to look up at the person that had offered him such a small comfort, but his eyes took a while to adjust. Could he see her in this darkened tower? She brought his hand up to her cheek and reached out between the bars to touch his face, a face so cold that it may as well have been that of a corpse. He needed to see a doctor and soon. Whoever had done this to him would have to face the law; this was too cruel for words . . .

"B-Belle, is that you?"

"Papa! Who did this to you?"

"I-it doesn't matter now," he said, as he coughed again. "You need to leave!"

"What are you saying? I can't just leave you here!"

"You must! Please, Belle! Go!"

"You can't be serious, I -!"

Belle screamed as her candelabrum was thrown from beside her. The movement was fast and sudden, whatever had done it was gone before her eyes could meet it, but the golden candelabrum – heavy and warm from her touch – smashed loudly against a far wall and clattered coldly to the ground. Her only source of light was eliminated. Who had done that? Why would they cast her into darkness like that? She spun around and crawled against the door, her hands clasped desperately against her father's for some comfort and security. She wouldn't leave him! She couldn't!

"Belle, go!"

"No! I won't leave you!"

She looked through the darkness and squinted with the lack of light, but all she could see were several shadows. There was one in particular, a tall shadow that seemed hunched over and hidden completely in the dark, and that one – that one terrifying and commanding presence – captured her attention most of all. It seemed that of the two men beside him, faceless men with bodies thin like coat-stands, one pushed a button for some light. It wasn't enough, but it helped . . .

A row of wall-lights slowly flickered on, one by one, and gave just enough light to illuminate the hallway. The two men appeared to be guards of some sort, whilst the hunched man seemed to stay hidden in an alcove, letting the shadows envelop him and consume him. He had moved quickly, enough that the candelabrum lay not far from his feet, and yet he stood and acted as if he had moved at the most natural and leisurely pace possible. Could he be the owner of the manor? He didn't seem to be noble or regal, at least not by how he slouched and hid, almost as if he had perfected 'skulking' to an art form. If he were the owner, then why had he put her father into this cell? What was he doing here? Just . . . who was he?

He slouched against the wall with a long cape wrapped around his body. It seemed to be a deep purple colour, one that only helped to blend him in with the dark shadows about him, but he stood profile to Belle. The only thing that she could see was his golden-brown locks fallen across his face, hiding him from her sight, and yet she caught the feeling of a rather intimidating aura . . . she couldn't see his arms beneath his cape, or his eyes beneath his hair, but she knew – without knowing how – that he was glaring at her. He hated her.

"What are you doing here?" he growled.

"I – I was looking for my father. I saw his car outside and – "

"You're not welcome here."

His voice was deep and rough, and there was a slight accent there that she couldn't quite put her finger upon. It sounded like an upper-class boy who had been left to learn and study from the media, a child locked away to become a man with his own devices, and so there was an educated lilt to his tone, but also a heavily Americanised accent that sounded misplaced, as if he had somehow copied his speech patterns from his favourite heroes and heroines.

"You locked my father in a cell! He's clearly sick and –"

"He trespassed in my manor! If the man's car breaks down then let him call a mechanic! He's lucky I haven't thrown him to the police or killed him in self-defence! He has no right to trespass on private property! None!"

"He doesn't have a phone and he's miles from our village! What was he to do? You would expect a sick and elderly man to freeze the night in his car?"

"I expect him not to test my patience! He wanted a room for the night, he's got one!"

"You – you beast!"

Belle let go of her of her father's hand and stood shakily to her feet. She couldn't let this man intimidate her, not when he was in the wrong and had hurt her father so cruelly, but it was hard not to feel her heart race and her mouth run dry in nervous terror. The man was so much taller than she was, and he appeared to be incredibly muscular beneath the velvet cape. If he chose to, he could probably do both her and her father a lot of damage. It was hard to stand tall and be brave.

How could he treat someone like this? No one had the right to treat another person this way, no one! Had no one ever dared to tell him right from wrong? Had he no parents to teach him basic human kindness? Belle was scared – terrified – and yet she wouldn't bow to this man's temper, she wouldn't bend and break just to keep him contented, because if she did then she would lose everything. She would lose her father for the night to some cold and cell-like room, she would lose a chance at teaching this beast that he wasn't the centre of the universe, and – most of all – she would lose all dignity and self-respect. She wasn't submissive like Gaston's floozies, nor would she start to be so now. She would stand up for herself and for her father. She would stand strong against him.

"You have to let him out!"

"Why should I? He trespassed on my land and for what? All he wanted was to gawk at the beast! Fine, then he can stay here and gawk all he wants! I'll let him out when I'm good and ready."

"You can't just falsely imprison – "

The man reached down to grab the candelabrum. Belle barely had time to duck when he threw it somewhere to her right side, and as she collapsed to her feet – shielding her head with her hands – she could hear it smash hard against the wall and drop to the ground with a hideous shattering bang. Her father called out her name and took a hold of her head with his hands, as he felt around to see if any damage had been done, but it hadn't hit her. He had never intended to hit her. He had intended to scare her. She didn't have time to ponder the meaning of this before he screamed:

"I can do what I want! Call the police, _he'll_ be the one arrested."

"Fine! I will, and –"

"And see what happens to him by the time they arrive. I'll have witnesses to say that he 'fell' down the stairs, and you'll have nothing but your word against mine! _He_ _stays_! I won't be the subject of mockery! Not in my own home! Not anywhere"

"Subject of -?"

Belle touched her father's hands and pulled them away from her. There was something strange about what the man had said, something that seemed out of place just in the same way that she herself did not quite belong . . . she had been so sure his objection had been about trespassing on private property, possibly the fear of having a stranger do him some harm, but now it seemed otherwise. It seemed his objection was to being mocked. Why would anyone mock the master of the manor?

She felt her eyebrows furrow in confusion as she stared hard at him. The way he hid his body with his cloak seemed to imply he wanted to hide his body, and the way he hid and stood in the shadows kept him from being fully seen, and if she were right – had she remembered correctly – he had yet to turn his head to face her fully. Everything about him screamed that he was a man who wanted to hide himself from the world, perhaps even hide _in _himself, and that worried her a little. He hunched over like a tall person would when self-conscious about their height, and he wore his hair long and loose like a person who sought to hide their face. What was he hiding? He seemed strong and muscular, fast and sleek, and yet he was clearly hiding something . . . clearly ashamed by his appearance . . . why?

"Come into the light?"

She was surprised when he obliged so willingly. He stepped forward and away from the shadowy alcove, he even turned to face her fully, and yet he moved so slowly – so cautiously – that he seemed almost as afraid of her as she was of him. His feet were bare and black along the soles from the dirt and grime of the stone floors, and his cape was so long that it flowed down to his ankles, but he had loosened his grip of it just enough that it fell open about his chest.

Her first thought – as her eyes trailed up his body – was that his chest was incredibly well defined and muscled, albeit not as obscenely so as Gaston's, and she thought him perhaps one of those vain sort of people who prided themselves solely on appearance. It was only when she reminded herself that a vain man wouldn't hide his body that she thought otherwise, and that perhaps working out was merely a hobby for him or a necessity for some reason. Then she saw his auburn hair, thick and full about his shoulders, an unusual hue that had seemed brown in the shadows, and then she saw it at last . . . his face.

There had been a time when he had once been handsome, perhaps unconventionally so, but handsome nonetheless. His right eye was wide and a piercingly beautiful shade of blue, his brows large and regal like a prince from a fairytale, and his lips so large and full that one couldn't help but think of what it may have been like to kiss them, and a nose that upon a woman may have been a curse, but on a man seemed elegant and handsome. The only thing that ruined it was the scar.

The scar . . .

The entire left side of his face was scarred most terribly, so that it seemed almost as if someone had transplanted the skin from another person onto his own, skin at least a few shades darker than his natural tone. The surface was shiny and smooth too, unnaturally so, other than in places where it seemed like rumpled leather and wrinkled. She covered her mouth as she gasped loudly. How had he been injured so cruelly? The scars seemed to run down his neck and onto his shoulder. Were they painful for him? Weren't there surgeries he could attempt? The poor man . . .

"I – I'll stay! In my father's place . . . I'll stay."

"No, Belle," her father cried. "You can't do this!"

She stood shakily to her feet and clenched her trembling fists. This man wanted a prisoner, some sort of vengeance for a perceived injustice, and so she would gladly stand in her father's place. It was just for a night, wasn't it? If one of them didn't agree to stay, if they called for help, then there was no telling how he might react and what he might say to the police on their arrival. She couldn't risk that her father be unjustly prosecuted or harmed by this man or his servants. She couldn't.

"You want someone to pay," she said, in a calm voice, "then I'll pay."

"Belle, don't do this! Don't!"

"If I take my father's place, will you let him go?"

The man stepped back again into the shadows and appeared to growl, a sound so low and dark that it sent shivers through her spine. She had heard stories – terrible stories – of what happened to women in these circumstances, of women locked away for decades sometimes, but the only thing that calmed her slightly was the fact that her father would know where she was. He would be able to come back for her or send for help. Then there was also the look in the beastly man's eyes, a sort of understanding and empathy that he appeared to be purposely suppressing. It was as if he felt her dilemma, but wanted to distance himself emotionally from it.

"Very well," the man replied. "He can leave, it makes no difference to me."

It seemed to happen within moments, for no sooner had the scarred man snapped his fingers had two of his men stormed forward towards the cell. One of them pushed Belle rudely to one side as the other opened the door, meanwhile the master of the manor watched indifferently to the whole situation, almost as if he didn't see Belle's father desperately trying to reach her or her trying to reach him. She wanted to make sure that he was okay, wanted to hug him goodbye . . .

The two men took a hold of him by his arms, restraining him with what seemed like almost too much force for an elderly man . . . he was so short, a little overweight, and frail with a hacking cough . . . was there a need to manhandle him and grab him like that? He struggled. He fought. He tried to reach her and talk to her, but they just carried him away like it was nothing, whilst one snatched her bag from her shoulder to give to the father. He would be able to drive her car now, he would have a phone to call for help, but now she was would be helpless, now she would be isolated and alone in a home with only a beast for company. What had she done?

She ran to him as they began to drag him down the spiralled staircase, but the scarred man blocked her way, growling at her as if in warning, as if _daring _her to try and get past him. She knew he couldn't keep her here long, but the very thought of not being able to protect her father, of not being able to help him or nurse him through this illness, made her feel somewhat ill and filled with guilt. She told herself over and over that she was doing this for him, that this way he could sleep warmly tonight and take his medicine, but she worried . . . she worried . . .

"Belle, I'll be back! I'll get the police I'll –"

"Papa!"

She never got to hear the rest of his words. They had already taken him away, probably to throw him outside the manor gates and into the cold, away from the comfort of the only family he had left . . . away from any kindness the world had left to offer . . . now she was trapped. She was trapped with a man whose intentions for her were debateable, a man who had thrown an elderly person into a cell, a man who seemed to hate the world and everyone within it . . . what had she done? She had just abandoned her father, even if it were for the best . . . even if it would save his life . . . now she was alone . . . alone with a beast.

"Papa . . ."

Belle collapsed to her knees. She wept.


End file.
